


Little Daydreams, Little Accidents

by justanothersong



Category: House M.D.
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Infidelity, Medical, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Reader-Insert, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:53:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28233468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justanothersong/pseuds/justanothersong
Summary: It happened again, not three weeks later. It was midday and you’d bumped into one another in the hallway. It wasn’t even an accident; you’d just smiled, and he smiled, and the next thing you knew, you were heading for your office and locking the door behind you.
Relationships: Dr. James Wilson/Reader, James wilson/reader
Comments: 3
Kudos: 24





	Little Daydreams, Little Accidents

You were more than a little dead on your feet. You had expected your rounds to be over by at latest six that evening, but here you were, pushing midnight and looking over a chart at the nurses’ station in an oncology unit. There had been three emergencies and one code that you had been needed for, your clinic hours ran long, and you still had a few charts to sign off on. This one in particular warranted special attention. 

Your patient, a young man in his early twenties, had refused to believe for far too long that his apparent asthma was actually cancer. Even though he was in the hands of the oncology staff now, you still kept a close eye on his case. It gave him some comfort that you still checked in on him; besides, you liked the kid. You hoped he would make it.

You yawned and flipped a page in his chart, reading over the day’s proceedings, pushing your hair out of your face with one hand while absently lifting one foot to scratch the back of your opposite calf.

“You know you have a pen in that hand, right?” a voice broke the quiet of the sleepy ward.

“Hmm?” you asked, looking up in surprise not only at the interruption of your thoughts but also to find that there was in fact an uncapped pen in your hand, ready to scrawl across the side of your face if you played with your hair any more.

The kind face of Dr. James Wilson split into a smile. “Better it’s not a Sharpie, I guess,” he offered, and you couldn’t help but chuckle softly.

“So sue me, Wilson, it’s been a long day,” you replied, and dropped the pen on the countertop, reaching for the cold cup of vending machine coffee you had been carrying for the past hour. You took a long drink, grimacing after you did.

He leaned up against the counter beside you, offering a sympathetic glance. “You don’t have to check up on us up here,” he said, clearly not offended but rather looking to placate. “We’ll take good care of him.”

You sighed. “He’s so young,” you said, shaking your head. “If I had caught it sooner…”

“Hey, you got a referral for an asthmatic cough that had already been diagnosed by his primary and an allergist,” Wilson told you, a hand on your arm. “It’s a damn lucky thing you _did_ catch it at all. Whether he makes it or not, whatever time he has left? That’s thanks to you.”

You couldn’t help but offer a tired smile in response. “You sweet talker,” you teased.

Really, it was only half-teasing. It would be a lie to say that Wilson wasn’t one of the most charming men, let along fellow physicians, you had ever encountered. What made it all the worse was that he never seemed to be doing it on purpose: he actually _was_ that kind, considerate, and caring. It was almost infuriating, really, that you, a grown woman, found yourself always halfway between shaking him by the shoulders and telling him to _stop being so god damn cute_ and just planting one on him. 

This was _not_ what you signed up for in med school.

You were an adult. You were supposed to be well past the schoolgirl crush phase on handsome doctors, particularly when they were your colleagues.

The _handsome_ part was too true on top of it. Light brown hair that was a little messier than was strictly professional most days -- owing no doubt to something ridiculously sweet like being ruffled by some elderly patient who was reminded of a long-lost grandchild when they saw him -- a ready smile, and worst of all, _worst of all_ , those eyes.

Those god damn _eyes_.

You’d read enough terrible romance novels over the years to have come across a thousand or more descriptions of some stalwart hero’s pretty dark eyes, but none came close to the eyes of Dr. James Wilson. They were soft and brown and deep; sometimes you felt like he saw more than anyone else, saw _inside_ of people, what they were dreaming, what they were hoping. ‘Soulful’ was the word you’d use to describe them if pressed, but it was not enough. Never, ever enough.

They were beautiful. _He_ was beautiful, inside and out.

Oh, you knew he wasn’t perfect. He could be a flirt, oftentimes without realizing. You weren’t certain how many marriages he’d had -- you were never close enough to really know, simply colleagues who passed one another in the corridor, occasionally offering a helping hand in the form of a consult -- but you had vantage enough to see that wedding rings came and went on his finger like the tides. 

Still. _Still_.

Moments like these? You’d be hard-pressed to care.

He smiled again, that perfect god damn smile. “Where did you go?” he asked, waving a hand in front of your face as though to call you back to the present. There was a ring there this time, a simple gold band.

You gave another tired smile. “Sorry,” you said, shaking your head. “Lost the plot there for a moment.”

“Off in la-la-land?” he suggested, effortlessly charming. He still stood with his back leaned against the counter of the nurses’ station but his position was slightly hunched now, relaxed. He had settled in to chat.

“Nah, just wondering if I should invest in a pocket protector too,” you teased, unable to help yourself as you reached out and tapped the bit of plastic in the pocket of his white coat. The body beneath felt firm and strong; it made you wonder what he’d look like without the coat, or anything else.

He gave a laugh, a small snicker that had him casting his eyes down, fine lines crinkling at the corners as his mouth pulled into a grin.

“Maybe just try and keep track of the pen caps next time,” he teased back, and you almost thought he was flirting with you. That would be new; you may have seen his unconscious toying with other women at the hospital before, but never with you.

The conversation died but you were still smiling at one another, something sparking in your chest that you were very curious to follow, so wrapped up that you hadn’t noticed the approaching footsteps -- very recognizable staggered steps.

House reached forward and snagged the chart right out of your hand, flipping through the pages quickly and asking, “So who broke it to the frat boy that he has the lungs of a sixty year old chain smoker?”

You couldn’t stop yourself from grimacing and rolling your eyes any more than Wilson could stop the small smile creeping to his lips at witnessing your reaction.

You quickly snatched the chart back. “Not your case, House,” you told him, barely suppressing the annoyance in your tone.

He grabbed it back just as quickly. “Not yours either,” he replied. “Did you come up all this way just to flirt with Wilson?” House leaned in, eyes wide and feigning being scandalized, and said in a loud whisper, “He’s married, you know.”

You rolled your eyes again and took the chart back, opening it on the counter and grabbing your pen to scrawl a few notes before slapping the folder shut. You were about to throw your pen into the pocket of your lab coat when Wilson stopped your hand, grabbing the discarded cap off the counter and pressing it into place. You smiled and gave a quick nod before dropping it into your pocket and handing him the chart.

“Goodnight, Wilson,” you called, turning to walk down the hallway and head home.

“What am I, chopped liver?” House called after you, a little too loud for the quiet floor that time of night. You smiled to hear the on-call nurse shushing him, even as you flipped him the bird over your shoulders.

“That’s not very ladylike!” he shouted after you, but you were still smiling.

Your patient didn’t make it. The cancer was just too aggressive; convincing him to get into treatment gave him a few more months, but not much. Still, he had been smiling that morning, thin and quiet as he lay in his bed, surrounded by monitors and machines, his family tucked in close, waiting for the end. _Smiling_.

He died on a beautiful, sunny afternoon, and you found yourself sitting on a random bench in a random hallway in the hospital, staring at your shoes. It had been a long time since losing a patient had affected you like this; you were angry that you were upset at all, and even angrier that you didn’t get upset very often anymore. You gripped the edge of the bench with both hands and closed your eyes, trying to steel yourself.

You still had work to do, after all. You couldn’t be falling apart like this.

You felt rather than heard him sit down beside you, the gentle change in weight distribution on the bench, and a warm hand covering one of yours.

“I’m sorry,” he told you quietly. “We did everything we could.”

You opened your eyes in surprise. “I know,” you told him, brow furrowed. “Wilson, I know, your team was amazing. You don’t… you know I’m not blaming you, right? It was a terminal diagnosis, there was nothing…”

“I think you’re blaming yourself,” he told you carefully, those god damn brown eyes so full of sympathy and affection that it was almost enough to call forth the tears you had been willing away. “And you shouldn’t be. You helped us give him a few more months with his loved ones. You did all you could.”

You sighed and flopped back against the wall, turning your head to face him. “I always thought this part would get easier,” you admitted. “They tell you it’ll happen. That you have to be careful, not to get too cold and too clinical when death is your everyday. Why can’t I let this one go?”

He smiled, soft and charming as ever. “Because you have a heart,” he told you.

You snorted. “Thank you for that lesson in basic anatomy, Dr. Wilson.”

He leaned back beside you and nudged you with his elbow. “You know what I mean,” he replied. “Some can’t let it go. Some learn not to care. I can’t tell you which is better, or which is easier. I guess we all have to find the balance.”

“You seem to have it down pat,” you told him. 

“I have my days,” he relented, and heaved a sigh. “I have my days.”

There was something in that admission, in the strangeness of such a beautiful day that had brought with it so much sadness, that brought you from being mild acquaintances to being friends. Not the sort of friendship he shared with House, of course -- that kind of thing was as rare as it was complicated -- but the sort that smiled when passing in corridors and sought one another out for cups of coffee in rare quiet moments. 

You didn’t put in a call to Oncology anymore when you needed it; you put in a call to Dr. Wilson. You no longer sent your PAs or respiratory therapists to look in on his patents; you went yourself. No one else seemed to notice the change, but you did, and you were certain he did as well.

It happened for the first time some months later. It never should have happened at all. You both knew it. The ring was still there on his finger, maybe not as bright and shiny as it used to be, maybe a little dented, a little carelessly thrown on, but it was there. 

Another late night. One of your patients, a young girl with cystic fibrosis, had been admitted overnight the day before and you’d spent considerable time speaking with the ER doctor and her pediatrician throughout the day, on top of your regular patient load and evening rounds. You were tired and knew he kept a _treasure_ in his office: coffee pods, strong and dark and rich and a million times better than what you could get out of the regular machine. It was pure dumb luck he was even there.

He smiled when you stepped in, finding the door ajar and the light on when you approached. “Come to raid my stash?” he asked knowingly.

You didn’t even remember closing the door behind you, but you must have. The room was dim, only his desk lamp on and the blinds drawn. He’d been a little tired himself, not bothered to turn on the ceiling light, content to read by light drifting in through the open door. It wasn’t work that was keeping him, you knew. He’d been staying late a lot lately, arriving earlier than needed. You had a strong suspicion it was to avoid being home.

You gave an apologetic shrug. “Am I abusing my coffee privileges, Dr. Wilson?” you asked, the flirtatious pique to your voice par for the course as of late. You couldn’t seem to help yourself; all he had to do was smile, and you lost all thought of propriety, but it never went any further than that. Until that night.

“Better you than me,” he told you, lifting the empty paper cup on his desk to punctuate his words. “Any more of this stuff and I’m liable to vibrate out the door.”

You laughed at his words, sidling up beside him and stooping to open the bottom drawer on his desk even as he rolled his chair back just the slightest to allow you room. Then it just _happened_. You could never recall any conscious decision to do it, no single moment where all that had been building inside you for weeks had just become too much. It just happened: you were there, leaning down, and he was there, pushed back and maybe leaning just the slightest bit towards you, and then there it was. You kissed.

It should have stopped there. An embarrassed laugh, rushed apologies, springing apart from one another as though you’d just been burned. It should have ended; you should have gone back to acquaintances, simply colleagues, ashamed and avoiding each other. But it didn’t.

You leaned into it, closing your eyes, enjoying the play of his soft lips against yours, the pressure of his hand rising to gently grip your bicep, even as alarm bells were ringing in your mind, screaming at you to stop, that this was foolish, this was crazy, this was _wrong_. You might have stopped it even then, if not for the sound he made. It was something between a sigh and a moan, full of lust and longing, deep in his throat and low enough that only your ears would ever hear it. You knew in that moment there was no stopping it, there was no going back.

This was happening, here, now, consequences be damned.

He stood quickly, the wheels on his chair squeaking in protest as it was shoved away quickly. The hand that had been on your shoulder slid into your hair even as his other arm slipped beneath your lab coat and around your waist, drawing you closer. He took control of the kiss quickly, nipping at your bottom lip until you parted them for him. You whimpered when he licked into your both, your body pressed close against his and your knees going weak.

It was good. It was _so god damn good_. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d been kissed like this, if you ever had been at all: with wild abandon, passion and longing built stronger and stronger until it was set free with the force of a hurricane. You could drown in his kiss. You _wanted_ to.

You hardly noticed as your own hands reached to loosen his tie and unbutton his collar, pushing his jacket back over his shoulders. You barely registered the way he untucked your blouse from your skirt so he could slip a hand up and touch the warm skin at the small of your back, though the contact itself made you gasp into his kiss. You didn’t realize that he had been walking you backwards until you hit the wall, the framed _Vertigo_ poster slipping from its hook to slide down behind you. It could have broken for all you cared.

“James,” you whispered, noting the way he shivered when you said the name you rarely used. “James, what are we doing?”

“What we want,” he mumbled back, words muffled from how close he was to you, unable and unwilling to pull away for very long.

You couldn’t argue with that.

Those three words seemed to break whatever last resolve either of you had. You hadn’t been this fevered or frantic with anyone in… you couldn’t remember how long, if ever. There was something manic about it, something desperate in the way he took your hands in his and tugged you away from the wall, leading you towards his desk. You kicked off your shoes and followed in bare feet across the carpeted floor. He helped you hop up to sit on his desk and then his lips were on yours once again, murmuring your name and telling you how long he’d wanted this between each searing kiss.

It was like something out of a dream. It felt unreal, seeing those beautiful kind eyes of his go dark with wanton lust. He slipped easily between your thighs, leaning forward to catch your lips with his. He needed that, needed that point of contact, even as he thumbed open the black lacquer buttons of your blouse and you slid your hands into his back pockets.

You felt giddy, almost like a teenager again. You had butterflies in your stomach and your hands were shaking, as though this was your first fumble in the back of some pretty boy’s beaten up car. But you weren’t some young ingenue and this wasn’t the innocent touch of a first love -- this was a married man, your friend and colleague, and you were in his office in the hospital where both of you worked, and yet… you couldn’t bring yourself to give a good god damn.

“You’re incredible,” he said, mouthing his way down the column of your throat. “Beautiful…” 

You leaned back, bracing one hand on the desk and paying little mind to the framed photo toppling over behind you or the file folders slipping over the edge -- how could you when he was nuzzling your breast and rucking your skirt up around your hips? You reached your free hand to tangle in his hair, already a mess from your hands, so unruly, so different from his usually gently tousled look. You could feel his arousal pressing against your thigh and again it seemed unreal, all of your recent torrid little daydreams brought to life.

He had pushed down the thin material of your bra and was dropping wet sucking kisses all over your breast even as your chest heaved with every gasping breath you took. You couldn’t take it anymore; you _needed_ him. You gently squeezed him with your thighs and tugged at his hair before moving to work at his fly.

“James, please,” you breathed. “ _Please_ ”.

He nodded, moving to your lips again to steal another deep kiss, one strong hand slipping between your thighs to tease against the damp silky fabric of your panties. 

“Are you…” he muttered, dipping two fingers beneath your panties slip inside and tease you even more. “Do you need…?”

“Just you,” you told him. “I just need you.” Maybe it was something in your tone, or just the desperate words you had spoken, but it seemed to strike a chord in him. He pressed his face into the crook of your neck and groaned your name before scraping his teeth against the soft skin there, earning a cry from you as he did.

You were sweating now, moving so quickly that it was hard to think straight. Your hands were shaking; he continued to tease you, smiling softly against your skin every time you shivered. You fumbled with his belt buckle, capturing his lips in another kiss as you did, quickly moving on to the button on his fly and then the zipper. He groaned into your mouth when you slipped your hand past the waistband of his boxer briefs, your heart beating a little faster at the sound.

“Do you have anything?” you asked, panting. “I don’t carry…”

“Oh… oh, no, I don’t…” he muttered, stepping away with a look of sweet befuddlement mixed with disappointed lust, until his eyes lit up. “Oh! I have… pharmaceutical rep, left me a bunch of…” he said, rushing across the room to where an unobtrusive clear plastic bag with a drug logo on the side sat collecting dust on a shelf. He shuffled his hand around inside for a moment before growing frustrated and dumping it out on the floor, a rain of logoed pens and notepads and little foil packets falling to the ground. He snatched one up and moved quickly back to settle himself between your thighs, the both of you tearing at the packaging in a rush until finally, _finally_...

You moaned, soft and low, your back arching involuntarily when he first pressed inside. You hooked your knee over his hips, leaning back to lay flat on the desk and pulling him down with your, your arms around his neck so you could kiss while he rocked inside of you. Your blood was pounding in your veins, the thrill of finally having him and having him there, in his office, late at night but the door unlocked so anyone might step inside driving you wild with pleasure. 

It didn’t last long; it couldn’t, not as frantic as both of you had been. He didn’t pull away when it was over, still kissing and touching and whispering in your ear.

“Did you?” he asked, a little breathlessly.

You chuckled and kissed him gently. “Yeah,” you agreed, still feeling the gentle aftershocks. “Yeah.”

The cleanup was awkward. You busied yourself straightening his desk while he cleaned up the mess from the pharmaceutical bag, scooping everything back inside and tidying it, setting it back on the shelf as though it had never been touched. 

“This shouldn’t have happened,” he told you, a mixture of wistfulness and remorse on his face.

You nodded in agreement. “You’re right,” you said. “And it can’t happen again.”

Wilson nodded in return. “Exactly,” he agreed.

It happened again, not three weeks later. It was midday and you’d bumped into one another in the hallway. It wasn’t even an accident; you’d just smiled, and he smiled, and the next thing you knew, you were heading for your office and locking the door behind you. One of the little foil packets from his office shelf had made its way to his wallet, and before you had time to think it over and realize what a bad idea it was, you were bent over your desk, his hands on top of yours, fingers twined together, his lips pressed to your ear to whisper all of the dark and dirty things you had both been thinking of since the first time you had touched.

It was addictive, the weight of his body draped over yours, the scent of him cloying your senses. You’d had a taste of heaven; you couldn’t imagine giving it up now. That was the worst part, really -- because you knew you had to. The ring was still there on his finger, even as they were wrapped with yours, his breath hot and heavy in your ear, your bodies moving together in the same sacred motion. You’d have to stop it… just not right yet.

When it was over, you were both laughing. Redressing, straightening your clothing, cleaning one another up. He tried to smooth out your hair, only making it worse in the process, leading him to laugh even more and press his forehead against yours.

“What are we doing?” he asked you earnestly.

“What we want,” you told him, and he smiled, leaning in to kiss you softly.

“This is crazy,” he said, sliding his hands around your waist and tucking your blouse back into your skirt, palms lingering against your ass. “It’s the middle of the day…”

“You’re the one who followed me in here, Dr. Wilson,” you reminded, before trading back another gentle kiss. He groaned at your words and you backed yourself up onto your desk, hopping up and wrapping your legs around him.

“You smiled at me,” he accused, nuzzling against your ear.

“I smile at a lot of people,” you replied, and closed your eyes, leaning into the press of his lips against your jaw. You sighed dreamily. “What… ah… what makes you think you’re so special, James?”

You felt his lips pull into a smile. “Because you just called me James,” he said. “And you locked the door when I followed you in.” The hands that only moments ago had been tucking in your blouse and smoothing your hair began reversing it all, working at your buttons as soon as the hem was free, and you laughed.

“It’s the middle of the day,” you told him, your actions belying your words even as you tightened your thighs around him, drawing him in closer.

He gave a pleased sigh. “Oh, I think they can do without us a little longer.”

Clearer heads prevailed in the days that followed. Fooling around at work was playing a dangerous game; taking it outside of the hospital, out into your private world, would make it a little too real. A few late night cups of coffee, quiet talks in quiet corners, and you made the decision together.

It _would not_ happen again.

You could be colleagues. Friends. That was all.

It was for the best.

The ring stayed on his finger, and the world was set back to rights.

You didn’t think anyone suspected, but there was a marked difference as the weeks went on. Maybe it was something in your eyes, something in the way you spoke; maybe your step was slower or your temper was shorter. Maybe it showed on your face how badly you missed the all too brief closeness you had with him.

“Are you okay?” Cameron asked over a midmorning bagel. Her team’s patient had left that morning, healthy as they ever were, and a new case hadn’t come in to catch her curmudgeonly boss’ attention as yet, so she had a rare moment of free time and seemed to be focusing her attention on you. 

You glanced up from where you were picking the sesame seeds off of your own bagel. “Hmm?” you said.

She narrowed her eyes. “Something’s up,” she told you. “You seem kind of…”

“Tired?” you offered with a weak smile. “I’ve been here all night. Had an aspiration pneumonia patient throw an embolism last night. Took forever to get her sats up even after the embolectomy.”

Cameron didn’t buy it. “No, it’s not that,” she said, shaking her head.

You yawned, a little more exaggerated than necessary, and shrugged. “Don’t know what to tell you,” you replied. “I’m dead on my feet, but that’s about it.” You stood and stretched, quickly cleaning up your mostly untouched bagel. “I’m going to head out, I’ll catch you next week. I promise, I’ll be much more awake then.”

She watched you go. “Sure…” she said, frowning. Of course she didn’t believe you, but it was of no matter to you. Cameron had a way of pushing her way into other people’s business, trying to put a bandage on everyone’s emotions. It could grate on the nerves, but you knew she meant well, just like you knew she was good at seeing through the walls people put up. Better you spent less time around her, until you got over… whatever it all was with Wilson.

You squinted in the morning sunlight as you made your way out to your car. It was bright and sunny in a way that seemed to taunt you for your downcast mood, but you couldn’t help it. Perhaps you wouldn’t be ruminating on all that had gone on if Cameron hadn’t brought it up, but then she had to see something in you to have even mentioned it.

Maybe this was your everyday now.

You had just sighed to yourself when you spotted his car pulling in beside yours. It would be rude, you thought, to try and hurry into your own vehicle and speed off without least saying hello, even though it had been weird and tense between the two of you since your last real conversation. You sighed again; it seemed like it would be just another one of those days after all.

You paused at your bumper and pasted on a smile, watching as his door opened and he stepped out onto the pavement.

“Oh! Hello,” he said, clearly surprised to see you there. Of course he wouldn’t have recognized your car; your time spent together had always been tucked away in a private space in the hospital, after all.

Your smile grew a little more genuine. “Morning,” you said. “Getting in a little late today?”

He gave a sheepish smile. “I forgot to pack my bag,” he told you, gesturing to the strapped overnight bag you could see in his backseat. “I have rounds and then I’m leaving for a conference.”

“Thoracic Society?” you asked, interest piqued, and he nodded. You had been scheduled to go to the same conference that weekend, but had cancelled your travel plans after receiving an email regarding some changes to the program.

He nodded. “Yes, I wasn’t planning on it at first, but Dr. Gottfried is presenting a paper…”

“On anti-angiogenic agents in the age of resistance to immune checkpoint inhibitors?” you filled in, and he nodded again.

“Yes, are you going too?” he asked, seeming pleasantly surprised at the turn of events. That _definitely_ piqued your interest; the idea of meeting up with him at a hotel, far away from the hospital and the trappings of your day to day lives, well… it definitely had its merit.

Unfortunately, you’d already cancelled your booking.

“I was,” you agreed, noting the sudden dimming of the bright interest in his eyes as you spoke in the negative. “But there was an email this morning that Dr. Gottfried has a bad flu and won’t be able to make the trip from Tel Aviv, so they rearranged all of the presentations and… well, honestly, I was going just to hear her speak, so I cancelled my travel plans.”

“Oh,” he said with a sigh, his disappointment clear, though you couldn’t be sure whether it was because of Dr. Gottfried’s cancellation, or yours. “Well, that certainly changes things. I’d heard most of the other speakers at the last ALA event, so this would just be a retread for me.”

You nodded. “That’s why I cancelled. But, on the plus side, it gives me three whole days on my own, since I’d arranged for Bentley from the outpatient pulmo lab to cover my rounds.”

“Yes, I had Ahamad covering for me,” Wilson agreed, and sighed. He scratched at the side of his head, frowning. “I suppose I should tell him that I don’t need the help.”

“Should you?” you asked, feeling suddenly bold. The malaise of the past few days, the feeling that you were just wading through your hours, had started to dissipate. “I was thinking I’d just take the time for myself for a change. Having a little getaway from the usual, you know? Not telling anyone I’ll even be home, just… relaxing.”

He looked at you curiously, the light coming back to those kind eyes of his… those god damn perfect eyes. “I… suppose… I could do that,” he said slowly.

“Of course, it wouldn’t really be a getaway if you just went home, not for you,” you countered, thumbing the key fob that would unlock the door to your car. “But if you do decide to play hooky, well… You know the Avalon Apartments?”

“Yes, I do,” he said, eyes trained on you with rapt attention. You felt a strange lightness in your bones; this could change all the rules. You should have been ashamed, or worried, but… you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

“I’m in 11C,” told him, and slid into your driver’s seat. “Dinner is at six.”

You drove away before he could reply.

You spent the day tidying up your place, after a well deserved nap. You hadn’t heard from him all day, no phone calls or text messages, your offer hanging in the air between you, but somehow you knew. You just _knew_.

Your marinara was simmering on the stove and you were wearing your favorite little black dress when the knock sounded at your door, a little past five that evening. You answered it with a smile.

“Hello James,” you said softly.

He stood in the doorway, his overnight bag slung over one shoulder and a bottle of wine in his free hand. “I hope I’m not too early?” he offered, and you shook your head.

“Right on time,” you said, stepping aside to let him enter before closing the door behind him. You took the wine, a nice port, and carried it to your kitchen to chill, returning to find him standing in your living room, looking as though he was still unsure of himself.

“Dinner won’t be ready for a bit,” you said, and he nodded, slipping his bag from his shoulder to rest in a nearby armchair.

“I can think of a few ways to spend the time,” he offered, and held out a hand. You took it eagerly, glancing down for only a moment to confirm what you thought you had already seen; there was no ring there on his finger.

He pulled you in and kissed you gently, soon growing bolder, until you were all wrapped up in one another, all thoughts of the world outside of that moment far far away.


End file.
